


Recommitment

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [17]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3668418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which decisions are made and bonds reaffirmed on the eve of a battle that decides everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recommitment

Aeron wanders down to Alistair’s room, Morrigan’s offer weighing on her mind. What can she possibly say that would make him accept this?

_Morrigan knows of a spell that will create a vessel that will entrap the Archdemon’s soul so that none of us have to die when it does. (“Morrigan actually wants to help us? There’s a catch to this, isn’t there, more than likely at my expense?”) Well…yes. (“I knew it. Alright. What sort of humiliating thing do I have to do?”) Actually…_

She frowns, clears the scenario and tries again.

_Alistair, Morrigan knows of a way to save our lives! (“Oh, does she now? This ought to be good.”) Unfortunately, it requires a ritual in which you have to sleep with her to create a vessel for the Archdemon._

Accurate, direct…and more than likely to earn nothing but laughter and disbelief. Aeron lets out a frustrated huff.

_So you know how Riordan said one of us will die if we kill the Archdemon? (“Yes? I was there, you know.”) Morrigan has found a way around that. It involves magic. (“Morrigan? Finding a solution that requires magic? What a surprise!”) It also involves sex. With Morrigan._

Kicking the leg of a nearby table does little to help Aeron find the right words, but it feels better than the helplessness sinking in. Nothing. There is nothing she can say that will make him accept this. How can she even _ask_ him to? She should go back to Morrigan now and tell her that the deal is off—

“I see you can’t sleep, either?”

Alistair’s voice makes her jump. Aeron lets out a small breath. “How long have you been standing there in the doorway like that?”

“A little while.” He shrugs. “You’re lucky you didn’t knock the plant over with that kick, by the way. Isolde does so adore her greenery.”

“I’m just…” She follows him into his room. “I’m restless.”

“Would it have anything to do with Morrigan? I saw her outside your room earlier, and the look she gave me…” Alistair mocks a shiver. “Rather frigid, even for her. What’s wrong?”

But the news lodges in her throat when she tries to tell him, and she can barely bring her eyes to his. For a moment, Aeron’s resolve wavers again. Even if she trusts Morrigan’s word, even if it will save them from what is otherwise inevitable—

“Are you alright?” she asks instead. “I mean, if you can’t sleep—”

“It’s just nerves,” Alistair tells her. “The battle we’ve been gearing up for is literally hours away now. I’d be worried if I _wasn’t_ so nervous. But…speaking of nervous, you look like there’s something on your mind.”

“Too much,” Aeron says. She closes the door. “We have to talk.”

“And I suspect if Morrigan’s involved, it’s something big, isn’t it? Go on, then. It can’t be much worse than what we’ve already heard from Riordan, can it?”

“Debatably…” She goes to him and takes her hands in his, hoping the warmth of his touch will steady her—and that this won’t be the last opportunity she gets. “Alistair… I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love you so much—”

“Aeron, you’re starting to scare me a little. What’s going on? What did Morrigan tell you?”

“What if…?” Aeron looks up at him. “What if there was a way to avoid dying tomorrow?”

“Against the Archdemon?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well, if you mean running away, it’s as tempting as it has always been, but you know very well that we can’t do that.” Alistair smiles at her briefly. “But you don’t mean that, do you?”

“I wish.” Slipping her hands out of his, Aeron turns away and slumps down on the bed. “Then I wouldn’t have to ask you to do this.”

“And the plot thickens! What is it I have to do? Wear a funny hat? Recite some poetry backwards in my smallclothes?”

“You have—” The words feel wrapped in razor wire. “You have to sleep with her.”

Silence. Alistair’s eyes narrow. He raises an eyebrow. And then, just as she worried, another smile breaks across his face shortly before he begins to laugh.

“How cute! Is this her form of payback? For all the jokes? She should know better than to go through you, especially with something like this. That’s hardly fair.” But Aeron’s pained expression doesn’t change, and his laughter dies awkwardly. Amusement gives way to concern. “Maker, you’re not joking. You’re actually serious. Wow…be killed by the Archdemon or sleep with Morrigan. How does someone make that kind of choice?”

Aeron shakes her head. “I don’t know. I really wish you didn’t have to.”

“And it has to be me? She doesn’t even _like_ me,” Alistair says.

“I suggested Riordan, but…she said it wouldn’t work with him. Something about him being tainted for too long, so it has to be you.”

“And you’re actually asking me to do this.” His voice is soft, but she can hear the shock in his voice. “What kind of ritual is this, anyway?”

“I don’t know much. Sh-she wouldn’t tell me much.” The Elf feels a headache starting in the front of her brain, just above the bridge of her nose, and she presses her fingers to the spot. “It’s something of Flemeth’s magic. Apparently, it redirects the soul of the Archdemon into a different vessel.”

“What…kind of vessel?”

Aeron can’t even bring herself to say, but judging from the way his expression shifts from concern to discomfort…

“Look—” Alistair sits down next to her. “—even if I was willing to entertain this idea…a-and I’m not saying I am—it sounds very far-fetched, and dangerous, and it’s _Morrigan_ … Is this really something you want me to do?”

“Of course not—!” The Elf’s throat locks up. Tears sting the edge of her eyes as she shakes her head. “I don’t. Thinking about you with someone else… I can’t. But I believe her. Maybe I’m just desperate, tired, acting on my possessiveness—I don’t know. Something in me just says to believe her, Alistair. Something in me says to trust her.”

She leans into his touch as Alistair’s hand reaches and cradles the curve of her cheek. How is he always so warm, so gentle? He should be angry with her, perhaps. It would be scary and it would hurt, but it would feel right. Appropriate. Instead, he looks at Aeron with as much love as he always has.

“We can refuse,” she offers softly. “There’s still a chance—Riordan might succeed at killing the Archdemon before we do, and if he does—”

“And you would take that risk? Those are some big odds.”

“But it’s still a chance, and maybe we’ll get lucky. We are due for some luck, aren’t we?” Aeron sniffles. “I don’t want him to die—I don’t want any of us to die—but if it has to be one of us—”

Alistair kisses her tenderly. He catches the first of her falling tears.

“Alistair, there’s still a chance—”

“I love you,” he tells her, “and I don’t like the idea of this any more than I like the idea of dying, but the persistent thought of losing you… Maybe it makes me just as desperate. Just as possessive.”

Strange, how the press of his forehead to hers is all it takes to make her headache dissipate. Strange, too, how it only makes the aching in Aeron’s chest worse. There are only so many tears that he can brush away now, but still he tries.

“I will do this,” Alistair says softly. “For us. So that we can have as many days together as we’re allowed, no less.”

And there it is. The matter decided. Aeron takes his hands between hers, presses kisses to his fingers; looks up and presses another to his lips as if to remind him—of what? She would rather not admit it. Instead, she slumps against him, face half-buried against his shoulder, trying to find the will to let him leave to carry this out.

“I am asking so much of you.” She sniffles. “Too much. And yet—”

“That is what love is. Partially, anyway. It’s asking too much and giving too much and…” Alistair sighs. “It will be all right, my love.”

“How are you always so sure?”

“Honestly? I’m not. Not always. But the alternative… I can’t bear thinking about it. Frightens me too much.”

Aeron straightens. This time, she dries her own tears. She tries to make her next thought a question but it comes out as, “Come back to me. If there is time—”

“I will.” Alistair rises. He gives her a parting kiss. “I love you.”

She doesn’t move to follow him. She can’t. It would feel too much like giving him away. Even if it isn’t, who can say for sure she will get the same man back? Who can give her certainty that he won’t grow to resent her for this, that it won’t drive some kind of wedge between them? The thought of Alistair’s warm gaze turning cold arises unbidden. To gain all those extra days just to see them turn into lonely ones…

Aeron could learn to make do without. She has before. Losing what is cherished is simply the nature of things. That was a lesson she learned well and fast in the Alienage.

But…

The sound of Wynne’s voice calling her name startles her. When did she leave his room? How did she get all the way into Wynne’s without even realizing it? Aeron tries not to let shock at her own distraction show on her face. Judging from the concern on Wynne’s, the attempt is far from successful.

“Are you alright, dear? You look quite a fright.”

“Oh, you know—” Aeron shrugs. “Just the looming threat of death and total annihilation. The usual.”

“And you’re alone?” Wynne glances up from her work of preparing poultices. “Forgive my forwardness, but I would have suspected you spending this night with Alistair.”

 _That makes two of us._ Aeron shakes her head as she walks further into the room. “Eventually, I can hope, though I wonder if that might be…I dunno, tempting fate?”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, it’s in almost all the stories. Heroes that spend the night with their lover, they tend to…well, die, and those that don’t, they have to make some kind of similar sacrifice. Something that pulls them away from their one true love forever.”

“And just what sort of stories are those?”

“The kind you grow up hearing in the Alienage.” Aeron crosses her arms. “For instance, there was one—a knight of Elven blood is called to some great destiny and along the way, he falls in love with a human maiden that he rescues from some marauders. On the eve of some great battle, the knight goes to his love and she gives him a ring; a symbol of her fidelity, imbued with magic that will give him strength to defeat his enemies. The knight is touched. He swears unending loyalty to her above all else, even his own people.

“The next day, the knight rides into battle as majestic as you please—banners fluttering in the wind, blade sharp, armor practically _gleaming_ in the sunlight—wholly certain that this day will be his. And it would be. It _should_ be. This is his destiny, after all.”

“But for the ring?” asks Wynne gently.

 _“But for the ring,”_ Aeron imperfectly echoes in a hard tone, eyes watching the flames dance in the fireplace. “Imbued with magic, sure, but the kind that corrupts his vision with hallucinations. He slaughters his troops in madness before being dishonorably gutted himself, right there on the battlefield that was supposed to be his crowning glory.”

The silence that follows is brief and uneven. Aeron turns away from the fireplace.

“I was seven when I heard that story for the first time. Put me off wearing any jewelry for a year. Even now…” She glances at her empty hands. “I don’t know why I told you all of that. It’s just a dumb story.”

“And yet one that has remained with you all these years.” The mage goes to her side and rests a gentle hand on her arm. “What troubles you?”

And how can Aeron even begin to tell Wynne the truth?

_Turns out I’m not ready to die tomorrow, so I’m trusting in ancient and possibly dark magic that might not work._

_What troubles me? Only that I had to talk my lover into sleeping with another woman in a bid to save both our lives._

_Don’t judge me too harshly, Wynne, but I’m letting Morrigan use Alistair to conceive a vessel for the Archdemon’s soul because I’m selfish and would rather live with that knowledge than nobly sacrifice my life or his for the good of Ferelden like everyone expects._

“It’s just that I’m too nervous to sleep,” Aeron says aloud. “In fact, I was hoping you might have something to help with that.”

Wynne gives a concerned hum. “I might.”

The Elf watches her go to her bag and dig around its contents. Wynne produces several ingredients and an empty flask. In her experienced hands, it takes what feels like only seconds to create the sleeping solution, but she hands it off with a word of caution. The recipe is one she has not made in some time and it is strikingly effective. Drinking it all at once might make Aeron hard to wake in the morning.

“So a small sip at first, then.”

Wynne nods. “And be sure you’re at least sitting in bed when you take it. An injury is not something you want to take into battle with you.”

“No…” Aeron sighs. “Thank you for this.”

Wynne gives her a kind look and touches her arm again. “Rest well, dear.”

The palace feels like a labyrinth as she makes her way back. Anxiety begins to rise the closer she gets to the guest rooms. Aeron hopes for silence, hopes not to intrude on anything. She lets her thoughts drift inward, back to the story she told Wynne. Why that one? Of all the tales she grew up with, why that one in particular? Humans—they’re not so… She has learned that. Seen it with her own eyes. Experienced it.

_But it only takes one._

That was the whisper from the elders, wasn’t it?There could be a hundred good humans out there, but just one of their worst is enough to cancel them. Like the slavers from the Imperium. Or like Loghain Mac Tir. Or like—

The tincture is bitter on her tongue, but Aeron barely registers landing on the pillow. She does not dream. Sounds do not stir her. Time passes without her awareness or involvement. It is peaceful in this darkness. There is balance.

And then that balance shifts sharply enough to pull her out of slumber.

_The mattress—_

It feels uneven. Why? She is alone, isn’t she? Was when she fell asleep…minutes ago? Hours? How long—?

A voice calls her name in the comforting dark, low and soft and familiar enough to make her heart ache. A hand lands gently on her shoulder and, even though she feels weighed down by stones, she turns in its direction. Her vision is blurred, but there is a face above hers, one as familiar as the voice calling her name. It comes into focus slowly, gains more detail, until—

_Alistair—!_

The name registers and the ache is momentarily worse. Alistair. Yes. It’s him, isn’t it? He is _here_. With her. Almost as if—

“You came back.” Her voice sounds small to her own ears. She makes the effort to reach up and he meets her halfway, pressing her hand to his cheek. “Alistair. You came back to me.”

“I always will, if it is what my queen commands,” he tells her.

“Then it’s done?”

“It is done.” He lies down beside her, slips his arm around her waist. “It is done and I am yours again.”

“And this isn’t a dream? I took—” Aeron blinks. She feels out the lines of his face in the dark. The anxiety begins to rise again. “I couldn’t sleep, so I took…”

The way he kisses her becomes proof enough. He really is here. He came back to her, and all the doubts that plagued her in his absence seem so small. All of the guilt seems so unnecessary; the fear trivial and easily obliterated. Alistair is hers, wants to _remain_ hers for all the extra days they will have. And she…

Aeron pulls Alistair close to her in the dark. The kiss she presses to his mouth is hungry, desirous—and it is returned with the same intensity, clearing away any remaining trace of sleep. Her heart races. There is warmth in her cheeks. His fingers linger at her bared waist. A soft, questioning sound escapes Aeron’s lips, one Alistair answers with a short nod, another hard kiss. He shivers as her fingers slip beneath the hem of the shirt that is quickly forgotten and Aeron can’t help herself; her nails, though they’ve not grown long, manage to draw a sharp moan out of him as she drags them down his back.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” Alistair asks her, amusement hiding in his voice.

“Maybe a little while,” Aeron answers.

“Hm?”

“A way to make you mine.” She runs her fingers through his hair. “To make it obvious. More obvious—”

Her words break off with a little gasp, nerves going alight under his touch. Alistair breathes a warm chuckle over her skin. Aeron breathes his name out like some learned prayer.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, “and I will do as you command.”

“Then make me yours,” she says.

And so he sets about to the task.

Alistair’s hands spark new fire under her skin. Her name tumbles from his lips, cloaked in shaking breaths. His mouth travels lower, planting blossoms of warmth along her throat until his teeth find a spot to bruise in the soft crook of her neck.

It is…unexpected of him, but welcome. Wanted.

And when he finally does take her, it is like… It is at it should be, but it is indescribably _more_. Alistair is warm and his weight is comfortable, right—not perfect, no, but _right_ —and when he touches her, Aeron feels like something precious. He is safety and he is like home to her. He is love, pure and sweet and passionate—

And all these things, she could learn to live without, but why should she have to?


End file.
